I don't know
where her voice ends
and the dreams begin,
having talked to her
on the phone at night,
nodding off with her
still in my ears
her shape in my vision.
She sends me pictures
that ooze into me
stir up something
I did not know
could be stirred.
Like someone with a stick
stirring up coals to
a fire
I assumed long dead,
her shape floating up with the sparks,
her voice as sweet as
the songs she sings
, and as devastating,
leaving me to clutch
my pillows,
leaving me vacant
when I wake and realize
she's not there with me,
just as mirage I see on the ceiling
as I open my eyes,
a mist that
dissipates
with daylight,
leaving me stirred and cooked.
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